


Broken

by Afalstein



Series: Recruitment Drive [7]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Criminal Minds
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Recruitment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4355306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afalstein/pseuds/Afalstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an ordinary day at the lumberjack camp for ex-profiler Jason Gideon, until a man in a suit shows up.  But what does the world's most infamous agency want with a burnt-out FBI Behavioral Analyst?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken

_“A lot of what passes for depression these days is nothing more than a body saying that it needs work.”_ –Geoffrey Norman

            “TIIMMMMBERRRRR!”

“Heads up, Professor!”

            Jason Gideon, former behavioral analyst for the FBI, stood aside as the tree came crashing to the forest floor.  Instantly there were three or four men astride the massive log, stripping it of its branches, leveling chainsaws to separate the impossibly long tree into manageable chunks.  Gideon gathered up the discarded branches and tossed them into a nearby woodchipper. He had to move quickly—the branches were dropping like flies—and yet he also had to ensure he was well clear of any chainsaws that swung free.  And he also had to be careful not to get too close to the hungry wood-chipper. 

Sawdust flew everywhere, caking his face, filling his throat, clogging his nostrils.  The goggles kept it from his eyes, but those had their own problems, as the strap was growing itchy and the clear surface fogging from the sweat trickling down his brow.

Gideon had never felt so alive.

“That’s the last!”  Merle, the lumberjack foreman, lopped off the last slim branches at the head of the tree.  “All right: 11:56.  Close enough to lunch as no matter.  Half an hour, people!”

Gideon quickly gathered up the remaining branches and dropped them into the woodchipper, plodding after the others toward the bus.  Pulling his lunch from the pile, he walked over to the shade of a nearby lumber truck, and sat down on a clear spot. 

Tobias and some of the others were already there.  “Humidity sucks today.”  Tobias grumbled, tugging off his gloves and goggles.  The imprint of the sawdust left a darker area around his eyes.  “Hot as blazes.  Not a cloud in the sky.”

“84 degrees out.”  Rob agreed, checking his phone.  _(Willingness to oblige, anxiety, speaks to childhood neglect.)_ “S’pposed to rain tomorrow, though.”

“Fat lot of good that does—another day without pay.  That’s the last thing I need.” _(Crushing pessimism denotes life of disappointment, posturing indicates an insecurity, possibly related to sexual performance.)_

“Y’know, I was reading up on the internet last night.”  Carl said, pulling a water bottle from his lunch. _(Attempts at bettering self, curiosity about outside world, indicates failed/bypassed dreams of another job)_    “Said being a lumberjack is like the third worst job in ‘merica.  The pay sucks, y’got no benefits, the work’s unstable, and it’s just plain dangerous.” _(underscored by dislike of current job.)_

A chorus of agreement ran around the circle.  “Yeah?  Tell us somethin’ we don’t know.”

“Third worst, y’say?”  Rob arched his eyebrows.  “Well, that’s somethin’ to be proud of.  What’re the other two?” _(Desire to find the best in any situation, false jocularity to diffuse tension.  Neglect = broken home?)_

Carl considered a moment.  “Ah, can’t remember.  One was shrimp fishing, I think.  But they get paid loads better.”  _(Again dissatisfaction with job.  Related to money—affluent upbringing?  Unlikely.  Perhaps demanding spouse.)_

“That don’t take much.”  Tobias grumbled.  “At this rate, I’m gonna be lucky if I get enough money to fix m’truck by the time it collapses.”  _(emphasis on destruction—weariness.  Personal tragedy or divorce? ~~murder?~~ No, not murder.  Stop it, Jason.)_

“Mmmm!”  Rob exclaimed, his mouth full of sandwich.  He swallowed and said.  “Say, y’guys see the car in the office’s parking lot this morning?”  _(Focus on common interests, desire to fit in.  Almost certainly broken home.  Dead mother/stepmother?  Father killed... STOP IT, Jason)_

“Oh, man, did I ever!”  Carl’s face lit up with the remembrance. _(Not spouse.  Personal aspirations.  Focus on material things)._   “I’ve never seen a car that well maintained.”

“It looked old.”  Tobias agreed.  “Musta ben like 30, 40 years old.” _(Age.  Definitely weariness.  Connected to sexual performance/divorSTOP already)_

“A 1962 Chevorlet Corvette.”  Carl nodded.

Gideon’s thinking ground to a halt.  “A Corvette?  From 1962?”  He asked.  “Those were expensive even back in the day.”

The others looked at him in mild surprise.  “You would know, eh Professor?”  Tobias chortled.

Gideon nodded.  “Man I used to know had one... beautiful little black number.  Took girls on rides all the time.”

“I’ll bet that thing flies down the roads.”  Rob suggested.

“Not these roads.”  Tobias shook his head.  “I’m surprised they got it here without it falling apart.”

“They ran pretty smooth for the day.”  Gideon shrugged.  “Though yes, they were mostly city cars.”

“You own one, by any chance, Professor?”  Carl was eyeing him with interest.

Gideon smiled.  Tobias snorted.  “Fat chance, Carl.  If Professor here owned one of those sweet things, what’re the chances he’d be out here busting his ass in the third-worst job in the world?”

“What, the Professor?”  Carl looked at Tobias scornfully.  “You’re kidding, right?  I’ll bet the Professor could pick up a job anywhere he wanted.  Certainly somethin’ above this dump.”

“Hey, where’d y’work before here, anyway, Professor?”  Rob put in.  “You teach somewhere?”

Gideon smiled, remembering instructing students in the FBI.  “Occasionally.”

“Well, what brought you out here?”  Tobias eyed him with disbelief.  “They catch you foolin’ around with one of your students?”

There was a general chuckle.  Gideon gave another smile.  “I got tired of things ending badly.”  He answered.  “Of losing people.  And of trying to understand the darkest minds humanity had to offer.”

“Teaching 3rd graders, were you?”

“Naw, man, that’s teenagers.  Teenagers are _scary_.”

Gideon just shook his head and returned to his lunch.  It was better that they didn’t know.

* * *

 

            They were about halfway through the trunk of a new tree, and rigging up a sling to ensure it fell in the right direction, when Carl suddenly peered over his shoulder and muttered.  “Boss man on site.  Look busy.”

            One of the things Gideon liked best about his new job was how it gave him so little time to think.  Being a lumberjack was a dangerous, surprisingly involved operation that required constant focus—you couldn’t waste attention on what Tobias’s stance probably said about his subconscious tendencies, or what Carl’s quick reaction to the boss possibly indicated.

            And of course, when everyone suddenly sped up, trying to look busier and more efficient than ever to impress the boss, that gave him even less time to think.  Even so, when he went around the tree to ensure the strap wasn’t caught on anything, and gave Rob the thumbs-up to raise it higher on the tree (the higher the more leverage, and the more successful the pull was likely to be),  he couldn’t help catching sight of Geoffrey T. Nagel, the area supervisor, and the three people with him.  That in itself wouldn’t be notable—the suit-clad man and young lady standing next to him weren’t particularly recognizable—but the third figure did make Gideon blink.  It was Dr. Randolph.

            Dr. Randolph had come to Portland earlier that year.  He and Gideon had met at the library, and quickly struck up a friendship.  The good doctor didn’t look to be nearly as old as Gideon, but he was an old soul, and had an astonishing knowledge of ancient history that Gideon found truly enlightening.  Occasionally, Gideon had a feeling the man was hiding something—he felt privately sure the man had been a soldier once, long ago—but as always, that was something he tried not to think about too hard.

            A sharp cry from above broke his train of thought.  Several voices cried out alongside it.  “Rob!”  “Shit!”  “Grab...”

            Gideon turned just in time to see Rob’s body flatten a clump of bushes, hitting the ground with a sickening crack.  Gideon had a faint sensation of the ground shaking, but he couldn’t tell whether it was real or all in his head.  Already he was rushing, alongside six or seven others, to where Rob lay groaning.

            Everyone was talking at once.  Mr. Nagel was on his phone, already calling for a chopper.  Carl and Tobias were at Rob’s side, speaking with him.  “Hold in there, man!”  “Leg looks fine, you’re going to be fine.”

            Gideon couldn’t speak for the legs, but Rob’s left arm was a mass of red, and blood was already soaking through the shirt.  He swallowed.  If a broken rib had punctured something...

            “Out of my way!  Out of my bloody way, I’m a doctor!”  A crisp british accent demanded.  The slim brunette girl Gideon had glimpsed at a distance shoved her way through the crowd of rough-shod men.

            Dr. Randolph and the other man were right behind her.  “Back up, back up, let the doc do her job.”  Randolph said easily, pushing the lumberjacks--with disturbing ease, Gideon couldn’t help feeling--back.

            The other man knelt alongside the doctor.  “How bad?”

            “These bushes saved his life, but only for the moment.”  The girl answered, opening up a case she was carrying.  “I’ll take a look at the arm in the moment, in the meantime, he’s almost certainly punctured an artery.  Help me with this...”  Rob’s flannel shirt was ripped off, exposing an angry red wound.

            “Ah!  Excellent!”  The girl beamed.  “It would be really tricky without an open wound like this,” she rattled off cheerfully, already rolling up her sleeve.  “The bleeding is mostly internal, but the wound gives it an outlet.  And it also gives ME an inlet...” Still talking, she plunged her hand deep into the wound, and Rob gave a loud cry “...to locate the artery and hopefully close it off.  I’m going to need that funny little wire tongs...” _(Fast method of talking while working indicates high level of proficiency, coping method for distracting from the real drama of the situation, indicates a fear of death, but existence of coping mechanism also shows disturbing familiarity with it...)_

            Gideon blinked.  It really wasn’t the time, but the girl was so fascinating.  And the man beside her... _(Calm nature, steady expression demonstrates stability, familiarity with this situation.  Asks questions, knows girl, knows how to keep her functioning...)_

            “I think I’ve got it!”  The girl’s face lit up with success.  _(Odd look of relief—fear of losing patient—former trauma/patient she herself lost?)_ “Hand me one of those clips, please.”  Without even bothering to roll up her other sleeve, she plunged her other hand in, feeling around with difficulty, a focused look on her face as she bit her lip.  “There!  Now I’ll just move the rib back into place...” 

            “GAAAH!”  Rob screamed.

            The girl obviously was pulling with all her might, her teeth were clenched, both hands were firmly clutched on something.  “Just... a little...”  _(Overcompensating.  Definitely patient/friend that she lost, now tries to make up for it.)_ She leaned back and withdrew her hands.  “I think... I think that’s it.”

            A relieved cheer erupted from the gathered lumberjacks, and the girl’s face flushed with modest embarrassment ( _unused to praise, recognition for her work.  Disgraced doctor?_ )  The man beside her stood up.  “Right, we need something to set his arm... anything straight will do—a branch, a thin board, just something we can use as a splint  And we’re going to need a length of cloth.” _(confidence, ease with giving orders—this man is used to leading, and to people listening to him.)_ “Mr. Nagel, how soon till the chopper gets here?”

            Geoffrey T. Nagel took the phone from his ear.  “An hour, they say.”

            The man looked down at the girl. She gnawed her lip.  “...not ideal.  I have antibiotics and bandages, but he’s losing blood fast.”  _(Worry, but not lack of confidence.  Not a patient she failed to save, a friend she lost.)_

            A brief struggle took place across the man’s face.  _(Concern for wounded man, obligation to something, fear of... us.  Interesting)._ He glanced around the clearing in a calculating manner, seemingly sizing up the space.  Finally he gave a decisive nod.  “Right.”  He turned back to the circle.  “See if you can clear a space for the chopper to land, or at least enough so they can quickly lower a stretcher down here.  Try to root the stumps out of that area over there.” As the crowd dispersed, Gideon saw him put his phone to his ear.  “May...”

* * *

 

            The lumberjacks immediately leapt to work with shovels, saws, and backhoes.  Geoffrey T. Nagel and his guests stripped off their suits and joined in, digging out stumps and clearing away loose debris.  Gideon wasn’t sure, but he even thought he saw Dr.Randolph uproot a single stump by himself.

            For all that, it was barely fifteen minutes when an enormous roaring filled the air.  The strange man put his hand to his ear and then stood up, waving his arms.  “Clear the area!  Clear the area!”

            As the lumberjacks ran, an enormous plane rushed over the treetops, checking its speed with unbelievable skill.  The roaring jets actually turned around, their blue flame pointing straight downward as the plane slowly hovered down towards the ground.

            Gideon spared a moment to look at the others.  The lumberjacks were staring in slack-jawed disbelief.  Tobias’s hat was clutched in his hands, Carl’s eyes were squinting as if he was trying to classify what he was seeing.  Geoffrey T. Nagel’s mouth was working, and he kept looking from the plane to the strange man, but no sounds could be heard over the plane’s roaring.

            As it lowered to barely a few inches above the ground, the back end of the plane folded out into a ramp, and several men rushed out, carrying a stretcher.  They dashed straight over to where Rob was lying, injured.

            “You!” Gideon came awake with a start to find the strange man gripping his shoulder.  “Give us a hand with this, can’t you?”

            Gideon sprang into life, jumping into position alongside the stretcher, holding the IV bag that the brunette was already plugging into Rob’s arm.  Dr. Randolph was on the other side, gripping the edge of the stretcher.  “Brilliant,”  said the girl, and motioned.  “Get him on board!”

            They dashed back across the clearing toward the plane, the roaring jets growing unbelievably loud.  They pushed the stretcher up the ramp, past an SUV, and straight into what looked like a lab. 

            “Ready the sick bay.”  The brunette said crisply, already darting about the lab, picking up various vials.  “I should be able to stabilize him, but I want him in intensive care just in case.”

            “I got it, man.” One of the attendants took the IV bag from him, and Gideon sighed with relief.

            He turned around just in time to see the ramp close behind them.                                        

* * *

 

            “They’re SHIELD.”  Dr. Randolph explained to him later, in the airplane lounge upstairs.  “Or well...” a shamefaced smile. _(nervousness, guilt)_   “...the last remnants of SHIELD, trying to set up the organization like it used to be.  I used to consult for them on occasion in my old job.  They’re decent people, I swear.”

            Gideon raised his eyebrows at the man.  “They blew their cover and exposed their equipment to save the life of one lumberjack.  I can believe they’re decent.  I’m just not sure how prudent they are.”

            “Believe me, May’s been chewing off my ear.”  The strange man from the forest walked back to join them in the lounge.  “Says the Air Force is already scrambling to find our plane.  We’ll probably have to lose them over the Pacific and set your friend off somewhere in a taiwanese hospital.”  _(Offers information freely.  Either trusts me or wants me to think he trusts me.  Perhaps also a threat? No one will find you?)_ The man proffered a glass.  “Sorry it took so long.  I actually never bothered to find where we keep the milk on this plane.”  _(Obliging, not detail-oriented. No false subservience—a leader by example)_ “Oh, but May keeps it freshly re-stocked.”  He added, as Gideon sniffed it cautiously.

            “I’ll have to thank her.”  Gideon smiled.  “And you are...?”

            “Ah!”  The man stepped over and extended his hand.  “Coulson.  Agent Coulson, formerly of SHIELD, but I imagine Dr. Randolph has filled you in on that.”  _(Again, threat? Implied surveillence?  Or establishing rapport through familiarity?)_

            “Jason Gideon.”  Gideon responded, shaking the man’s hand.  “Formerly of the FBI, but something tells me you know that already.”

            Coulson gave a shamefaced smile as he sat.  “Not much use lying to an ex-profiler, is there?  Can’t deny it, Simmons and I were there to recruit you.”  _(Clever, intelligent.  Expert at reading people.  Likely being honest—right now, anyway.)_ “Though, got to say, we didn’t expect...”  A troubled look crossed his face.  “...all _that_ to happen.” _(regret.  Responsible for accident?  Impossible.  More likely feels regret regardless of cause)._

“I’m curious.”  Gideon confessed, sipping his milk.  “Would you still have called in your plane and blown your cover to save a total stranger if you hadn’t been trying to recruit me?”

Coulson considered this.  “I’d like to think so.”  He nodded. _(Concern over motives, optimism over own nature)._

“Even if it meant risking the lives of your team?”  Gideon raised his eyebrows.

Coulson chuckled a little over that. _(Good natured, confident.)_ “There was no risk involved.  Or... well, at least, the risk was negligible.”  He amended.  “Air Force or no, May is one of the best pilots there is, and this plane is capable of tricks they can’t even imagine yet.  As for the lumberjacks...”   He shrugged.  “Sure, a couple of them will probably talk to the FBI, but they won’t be able to tell them anything they don’t already know _.”  (Calculated, intelligent, but not analytical, more instinctive.  Also trusts in his team’s abilities)._ “ Your friend is going to be unconscious for the rest of the ride, and you...”  Coulson’s smile turned a bit more wry.  “...you’re not going to talk to the FBI, are you?” 

“I could.”  Gideon shrugged.  “Or I could talk to Interpol.  I’m not a fugitive, really, just in early retirement.  Which leads me to the question—what exactly do you want with a burned-out old profiler?  Last I checked, you don’t deal in serial killers.”

“Not usually, no.”  Coulson shook his head.  “We do tend to deal in super-criminals, who can be just as destructive as serial killers, but they tend to be much less subtle and much easier to track than your old prey.”  _(Believes in himself and his work, believes it’s important, and wants others to believe it too.)._ “You’d be welcome to help there, if you want, but as I understand it, Mr. Gideon...” His gaze softened _(understanding, empathy),_ “...you’re tired of catching killers.”

Gideon’s eyes narrowed.  Profiling aside, that bit of knowledge indicated access to FBI files.  The fact that he mentioned it so casually meant that he didn’t even care who knew about his access.  But it also implied that this was a man who worked hard to thoroughly understand his subordinates, or even his potential subordinates.  “You understand correctly, Agent Coulson.”  Gideon gave a soft smile.  “So again, what use do you have for a profiler who doesn’t want to be a profiler?”

Coulson bit his lip and looked away for a moment, then he hunched forward a little further.  “I have two men.”  He said, bringing out a pair of folders.  “In very bad shape.  I have doctors to heal their bodies.”  He placed the folders on the table and looked at Gideon earnestly.  “What I need is someone to understand their minds.”

Gideon’s mind subconsciously noted the relevant profiling details—(concern for team, appreciation of spiritual, flexible, unorthodox solutions)—but they were moving toward the back of his mind as his interest in the conversation grew.  His fingers tapped the edge of the folders hesitantly, even as he shook his head.  “What you’re talking about is a psychologist or a therapist.”  He answered.  “Not a profiler.  I know how to deduce characteristics and tendencies from a given set of behavioral indications, not the various sorts of psyches and how to release inner demons.”

Coulson shrugged.  “It’s not where most of your experience comes from, I grant you, but the two fields are related.  And you’re tired of your old job, so why not try something new?”

“I guess I just don’t see why you’d pick me for this job instead of, say, a professional psychologist.”  Gideon explained.

Coulson hesitated, and his eyes flickered downward momentarily, toward the medical ward where the young doctor was tending to Rob.  “Well, honestly, it wasn’t totally my idea.”  He answered softly.  Then, more confidently, he added, “But your record speaks for itself, and it’d be hard to find someone with your experience.  At least...”  He ticked off characteristics on his fingers, “...with your experience, who might be induced to help, and with the sort of character I want working on my agents.”  He shrugged.  “It’s a whole mess of things, really.”  Again he leaned forward.  “But added to all that, I’m ready to believe that with as much as you know about broken minds, you’ve got a few ideas about putting them back together.”

Gideon casually lifted the edge of one file.  “Leo Fitz.”  He read, then lifted the other.  “Clint Barton.”  He let the folder fall and considered.  “What sort of options are you offering?”

Coulson gave a little smile.  “We should land in Taiwan in a few hours, unless May pulls some extra tricks and takes us to Peru or Alaska.  Look through the files.”  He observed, nodding toward the papers.  “See what you think.  At the very least, see if you can think of some pointers or advice about where to go with their cases.  Regardless of whether you can, or want to, give us any advice in this matter, you’re free to get out at Taiwan with your friend.  We’ll even give you a ticket back to Portland.”

“But...”  Coulson leaned forward.  “...if you’re interested, and if you’re willing, and if for once you want to look into repairing the mind of a good man, instead of thwarting the designs of a bad one... then you can stay on the plane, meet with these men personally, and offer what help you can there.”  Leaning back, Coulson stood and buttoned his suit.  “Your call.”  He smiled, spreading his hands.  “I’ll let you know when we’re in Taipei.”

When the plane left Taipei, Gideon was still onboard, chatting with a lovely young brunette who was a close friend of one of his future patients.

 _Hiding places there are innumerable, escape is only one, but possibilities of escape, again, are as many as hiding places_. –Franz Kafka


	2. Picking Up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gideon settles into the new SHIELD.

_“It is a lot easier to do good work when you have good words to say and work with good people.”_

_-Mark Harmon_

            Clint Barton, as it turned out, was a fairly easy case.  He’d had little but corrupt doctors looking to exploit his minor mania since his ordeal, and all he really needed was someone honest to talk to.  Gideon offered little more than a ready ear and the occasional suggestion.  Sometimes they even went fishing outside the complex, though that tended to make Coulson nervous.  Gideon was not too worried about him—it was evident the soldier had a robust mind, and should be fine given time. 

            Most interesting was the joint session he had with Barton and the young redheaded woman who showed up—the one who refused to give her name.

            “This is a waste of time.”  The redhead scowled from her chair.  “Clint can work his problems out on his own.  There’s nothing wrong with his head.”

            Clint raised an eyebrow at her.  “Speaking as the owner of the head, I’d have to disagree.”

            “Speaking as the expert on heads, I don’t.”  Gideon smiled.  “As far as heads go, Clint’s is in remarkably fine order, and perhaps, given time, he would work through them.  But the best way, and the quickest way, for him to work them out, is often just to talk about them.”

            “Because you’re also the expert on being mind-controlled by a god.”  The redhead crossed her arms.

            “No.”  Gideon shrugged.  “That’s the point of talking.  To try and communicate what it’s like.  And often, simply the act of talking to someone may make someone realize the solution on their own.”

            “Then he can talk to me.”  The redhead kept her arms crossed.  “There’s no need for interlopers like you.”

            “Be nice, Nat.”  Clint gave her an amused look.

            “Clint!”  She hissed.  “No names!”

            Gideon could not quite restrain a smile.  It was not hard to guess at the relationship between the two, especially given the arrow necklace the redhead was wearing.  “Have you, ever?”  He asked. “You clearly trust each other a great deal.  Have you ever talked about the events of... that day?”

            “Don’t.”  The redhead held up a warning finger.  “Don’t even try.  I’m a master interrogator, I know every technique in the book, and this grandfatherly routine you’re pulling on me isn’t working.”

            “It’s really not a routine.”  Gideon shrugged.  “I’m just old.  I’m not sure I could pull off anything else if I tried.”

            Clint snickered.  ‘Nat’ sent him a glare.

            “So you haven’t talked about it.”  Gideon returned to the subject on hand.  “Why not?”

            There was a little shrug from Clint.  “Nat tends to be pretty busy.”  He offered.  “And when she visited, I always wanted to talk about work.”

            “Why?”

            Another shrug.  “It seemed easier.  Got my mind off of cooling my heels in a psyche ward, helped me stay in touch with the game.”

            “There wasn’t any need to.”  Nat answered curtly.  “There was no point.  What’s done is done.  The less he thought about that day the better.”

            “Except what’s done is never really ‘done.’”  Gideon shook his head, a wave of melancholia washing over him.  “The past always haunts you.  You can’t just ignore it or pretend it didn’t happen.”

            He noticed that that seemed to strike home to the redhead.  She looked away and bit her lip.  Clint, too, seemed rather affected by his words.  Gideon decided to press the issue.  “These things need to be resolved.”  He continued.  “You need to find the proper context in which to view them, and that’s not something you can really find on your own, particularly if they’re things you keep running over and getting the same results.  You need...”  He gestured to the redhead, who looked uncomfortable, “...a second opinion.  One you can trust in.  Most people are surprisingly reluctant to trust their own opinions.”

“It just... seemed a bit unnecessary.”  Clint answered, seemingly defending Nat.  “I mean, I was already talking to about five doctors about that... day.”

            “Did you trust them?”  Gideon raised his eyebrows.

            A shamefaced grin.  “Not really.”

            Nat let out a sudden snort.  “With good reason, as it turned out.”

            “And you don’t trust me,” continued Gideon.  It wasn’t really a question.

            This time, Clint hesitated.  “I... respect you.”  He said at length.

            “But you don’t trust me.”

            A reluctant shake of the head.

            Gideon chuckled.  “It’s all right.  I’ve rather suspected as much for several weeks now.  I understand it’s hard for spies to trust anyone, even—especially—each other.  That’s why I find it so remarkable that the two of you _do_.”

            He rose.  “Honestly, I feel like I’m rather superfluous to this whole equation.  So I’m going to leave and check up on my other patient.”  He looked from one to the other.  “But I want the two of you to promise me that, if I do that, you’ll spend the time talking about something that really matters.  Trust is rare, and precious.”  He walked out the door.  “There are better things to spend it on than work.”

After that day, Barton improved rapidly, and Gideon felt that  his recovery was only a matter of days.  He suggested to Coulson, though, that when the man was relatively capable, that he be sent back into the world to follow his own path—not inducted into SHIELD.  Barton’s god experience had left him somewhat dependent, and it was better not to nurture that through giving him orders.

            Leo Fitz, on the other hand, was a hopeless case.  Gideon suspected that the reason Coulson had been so willing to take a profiler on as a therapist was that he’d known there was little that could be done for the poor boy.  He was not quite vegetative—he seemed to respond and recognize visitors, and he occasionally uttered the odd word—but for the most part he just lay in bed.  Gideon filled the time by talking to the young man about his own experiences and problems, or, if the boy had visitors, talking to his visitors.

            He had three main visitors—Coulson, a young girl named Skye, and most often, the brunette doctor Simmons.  Gideon gathered that the two had had a relationship of sorts before Fitz’s accident.  Now, Simmons was Fitz’s primary caregiver—apart from the irascible Dr. House, whom Gideon gathered was a new recruit like him.  Every so often the mysterious May would drop in, take a look, and shake her head, and occasionally a black man, Tripp, would come in with Simmons, but most of the other agents seemed to leave him alone.

            Gideon’s talks with the agents were fairly insightful.  Coulson was fatherly, protective, optimistic, and a little overwhelmed with the task ahead of him.  He was also a man of faith.  Gideon gathered that he’d had a traumatic life experience fairly recently, that had defined a great deal of his current character.  Skye was fun-loving, even more optimistic, and emotionally needy—as she came by more and more, Gideon started to suspect that she was seeing him as the father (or grandfather) that she’d never had.  Simmons was interesting; the accident, whatever it was, with Fitz had clearly left her feeling guilty, and there was also an air of profound disillusionment with her that spoke of a previous optimism that had died violently.  Even House was interesting in his own way—the man clearly was excessively morbid, and used his prickly personality to keep people at a distance.  Gideon suspected he might have recently lost a friend.

            But Leo Fitz was his charge, and he could gain little knowledge about Leo Fitz, until one day, when he uttered one of his rare words: “No, Ward, don’t...”

            “Ward” sounded like a name, rather than a verb or noun.  Gideon went to ask Coulson if Fitz had known anyone named Ward.

            Coulson’s face tightened, and gave him a file on the man named Grant Ward.  He also spoke, long and passionately, about Grant Ward, and more particularly his relation to Fitz’s ‘accident’ and how he related to Fitz’s current condition.  He even showed Gideon a live feed of the real Grant Ward, locked away deep in some corner of the base

            Gideon asked each of the visitors about Ward.  Simmons hated his guts, and held him largely responsible for the whole thing.  Skye spoke about the man with a mixture of regret and disgust—Gideon gathered she’d been rather attached to him at one point.  Tripp's account of him was short and terse.  May dropped in unasked and unannounced, simply because she’d heard he was asking, specifically to give her complete, uncensored opinion on her former partner.

            House had never known the man, but had several ribald suggestions as to why everyone felt so strongly about him.

            None of this, however, changed the fact that Ward had clearly meant a great deal to Fitz.  And none of it diminished Gideon’s growing interest in the man.

            Finally, he went one day to Coulson’s office.  “I’d like to speak to Grant Ward.”

            Coulson looked at him like he’d gone crazy.  “Out of the question.”  He shook his head.  “That psycho’s a one-man killing machine who ruined my team, and killed more fellow soldiers than I care to think about.”

            “He’s a boy.”  Gideon gave a soft smile.  “One who never really had a chance before you took him in.  And he blew it, but I think there’s still one more chance yet.  Let me talk to him.  I know a few things about psycho killers.”

            Again Coulson shook his head.  “He can’t even talk.”  He said.  “May paralyzed his vocal cords.  The most likely result is that he’ll kill you with his own fingernails.”

            Gideon shrugged.  “Than you’ll have lost a profiler who’s nearly outlived his usefulness anyway.”  He answered.  “Barton is as good as healed, and I’m not making much headway with Fitz.  Let me give this a try.”  He could see Coulson was still reluctant, so he added: “Let me do this, and I’ll help you with profiling those super-villains you’re after.”

            Coulson’s face changed.  “Super-criminals.”  He reminded him.  “And as I said, most of them aren’t that hard to find.”  For a long moment he seemed to consider the suggestion.  “Fine.”  He said at last.  “But May goes with you, and if you ever make a suggestion about releasing him, I’ll cut your visits entirely.  Understood?”

            Gideon nodded.  “Very well.”  And finally, he felt like he was doing real work again.

 _“Action may not always bring happiness, but there is_ no _happiness without action.”_

_-William James._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote this, I thought Ward might start on a journey of redemption, though he would never get there in Season 2. Currently, I doubt he'll ever come around. He's pretty far past the moral event horizon.
> 
> As to why Barton and Romanov are around--that's a reference to another story which I haven't posted, "Variations on the Death of Coulson," where both of them meet the living Coulson. I'll probably stick that up here eventually. I figure as SHIELD agents it would be believable for them to know in any case.

**Author's Note:**

> As before, this series takes place between seasons 1 and 2 of Agents of SHIELD.
> 
> Jason Gideon, like House, is a perfect fit for SHIELD to recruit, as a jobless professional with skills that SHIELD could really use. I've since learned that Gideon has died recently in Criminal Minds. This takes before that, and basically ignores it. Someone else wrote a shoot-off of this series, where Gideon went back, but with SHIELD agents, thus preventing his death.


End file.
